Jacob Mackenzie is a Cardiff based writer and graduate of Cardiff University, who hopes to continue penning poems about life, death, and everything inbetween.
There’s an Ikea chair facing the window,
staring gently at the world without sun.
It wakes up in greys and falls asleep in dark,
painfully aware of clichés.
It hit me in that chair, and in so many other places,
that when the heart and mind cry differently,
they cry unbearably and show it to us.
A rift. The ridge of darkness and faltered ends.
There’s no instruction manual for man,
there are exceptions which breed love, mostly,
but we aren’t born with a diagram of wires.
Those same wires would strain to see themselves and not cry.
So when I sit in an old Poang and think about the sky,
the dusky blues mingling tightly against a darker canvas,
And the trees whip by. I think about how to fix it.
This state of mind that looks to break down.
And I have no clue how to help. But I desperately must.
Still I can sit in comfort. Comfortable ignorance.
But the sky will just get darker.
And Man’s mind is getting sparser.